


Brother's Grim

by BirdMonster



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Tragedy, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Minor Violence, Temporary Character Death, Time Loop
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-05
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-17 16:55:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29228832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BirdMonster/pseuds/BirdMonster
Summary: The future looms over Claude as the end of the school year draws near. He knows that whatever happens will turn out all right, though-- he has his little brother Cyril on his side, after all.But the hands of fate had something else in store for him. When the only person he could ever rely on vanishes from his life, Claude wants nothing more than for those hands to turn back.Canon divergent time-loop AU.
Relationships: Cyril & Claude von Riegan, Cyril/Ashe Duran | Ashe Ubert
Comments: 12
Kudos: 16
Collections: The Three Houses AU Bang





	1. White Clouds

**Author's Note:**

> this is my piece for the three houses big bang au on twitter! they're @FE3HAUBang if you wanna see more
> 
> my fic was illustrated by @punchyfakegamer so please check out their art as well!! you can check out the piece they did for this fic [here](https://twitter.com/punchyfakegamer/status/1357848182328328195)
> 
> and lastly i am @avesmonster on twitter

Candlelight danced on the pages of the books splayed out across Claude’s desk. His bleary gaze jumped from book to book with an unfocused haze. He had lost track of time hours ago by then and though he hated to admit it, it was due time he turned in for the night— studying was no use if he couldn’t absorb the information in front of him. It wasn’t any use if it could no longer hold his full attention, either.

He had felt off since waking that morning, though he had yet to figure out why. Something just felt…  _ wrong _ , somehow. Claude was used to feeling anxious— like fate could rear its nasty head on him in any given second, leaving him once again with nothing more to rely on than his own trained reflexes to keep him alive. When death threatened you so much, you learned to live with the fear. But the feeling that gnawed on his stomach was different, somehow. It wasn’t imminent— it was far from panic. It was more like a chilling dread that crept through his veins until it haunted the back of his mind. Books were oft a good distraction from such things— when he could pay attention to them, anyway— but his focus had long since run out. So he let out a sigh and leaned back into his chair, ready to succumb to whatever terrible thoughts his mind would play until he managed to drift to sleep.

In the same moment, there was a sound behind him; that of rustling sheets followed by a groan. When Claude turned towards the noise, he saw Cyril sitting up on his bed, rubbing his eyes.

The boy had fallen asleep much earlier in the evening during their conversation about future plans. It was hardly surprising— Cyril had a bad habit of working himself to the bone and then some. Finding him passed out at odd hours was as unsurprising as it was concerning. And Claude was far from upset, Cyril needed the rest. Besides, much talk of their life in Derdriu could be saved for the trip there after graduation.

“Hey there sleepyhead,” Claude called, amusement in his tone.

“What time s’it…?” Cyril’s voice was sleepier than Claude felt. 

He gave a shrug. “Not sure. I was just about to get some shuteye, though. And it wouldn’t be such a bad thing if you got some more yourself.”

“Mm…” Cyril’s hands fell from his eyes. And when they did, a nearly pained expression was revealed. “I don’t feel too good.”

Claude frowned, eyebrows knit with concern. He stood and made his way over to the bed, then plopped down next to the other and placed a palm on his forehead. “Sick?” he asked. “You don’t feel warm.”

“No… more like… it feels like somethin’s wrong.”

The words made Claude’s heart drop. So Cyril felt it too, did he? If Claude was the only one who felt such a thing, the feeling could easily be dismissed. But if others felt it...

Of course, it could just be anticipation for the next day’s mission. The Holy Tomb— it was a place Claude always wanted to see. So many questions lay in those walls and talk of the goddess’s revelation only raised more. Cyril would be going with him along with the rest of their class. The other had his own worries about the place— he had been taught to defend the tomb with his life, after all. Claude could only hope that wouldn’t end up being a problem.

“Bad dream, maybe?” Claude suggested. Cyril tilted his head and the corners of his mouth tugged downwards as he thought.

“Maybe. Don’t really remember.” Cyril shifted a little then, turning so he could press his forehead against Claude’s shoulder. He was never one to voice a need for affection out loud, but Claude knew what that meant. So he wrapped an arm around the smaller boy, tugging him close.

“Could be nerves,” was Claude’s next guess. Even with their scholarly missions aside, there was plenty to worry about. Graduation loomed near. It felt as though the weight of their entire future was pressing down on their backs. There was a lot of work to be done, and though both of them were prepared for it, no amount of readiness could take the edge off reality. “My head’s been spinning around faster than usual if you can believe it, and I don’t doubt it’s been the same for you.”

“Yeah…” Cyril sounded unsure, his hands moving to grip at Claude’s sleeve. “Guess that could be it. But I dunno if I just feel nervous, or…”

Claude gave Cyril a moment to answer. When no answer came, he smiled and used his free hand to ruffle the other’s hair. “Well, your lack of sleep can’t be helping any. If you still feel bad in the morning, we’ll figure it out then, all right? No point in straining yourself.”

Cyril had difficulty pinpointing the way he was feeling… most of the time. It wasn’t a problem, really— he just needed space and time to figure out how to voice it. And Claude would always help him figure it out from there. At that point, it had become routine every time Cyril was upset, so he gave a nod at Claude’s words. He didn’t look all that reassured, though.

“Want a story to take your mind off things?” Claude asked. “It might help you sleep.” And to that, Cyril nodded again.

Claude repositioned himself to lay back on his pillows and once he had done so, Cyril reclaimed his previous spot on Claude’s shoulder. With the two of them settled, Claude began. “Let’s see… have I ever told you my favorite fairy tale?” Cyril shook his head. Claude didn’t have a favorite fairy tale— not one he could think of off the top of his head, anyway. But there  _ was _ a story that came to mind.

“Once upon a time in a land far away lived a young prince. Next to take the crown, he wasn’t what one would expect from nobility— the subjects hadn’t an ounce of respect for the boy. ‘He doesn’t belong here,’ they’d say. And none were willing to see things in a different light.”

“This sounds kinda familiar,” Cyril interjected. Claude laughed.

“Most fairy tales do. Just listen, okay? As I was saying… The prince was an outcast, and the king and queen were far from helpful. Instead of protecting their son from such turmoil, they egged it on, saying it was good for his heart. ‘It builds character,’ they’d claim. ‘How else will you grow strong?’

“Not far from the young prince was an even younger boy, though he wasn’t nearby for long. Taken from his place of birth, the young boy was trapped far away. Now the prince— he wanted nothing more than to be away. Somewhere he didn’t fear for his life at every step. And so he made this dream come true and left his kingdom, hoping for a better life.

“Once he made it somewhere new, however, it hardly felt new at all. The ones around him glared in suspicion. ‘He isn’t right,’ they’d say. And the prince was forced to face a grim reality— that this place was the same. Filled with prejudice and hate, he once again found himself fearing every step he took.

“But he found something else, too; the young boy who had been taken from his home. When they met, the prince realized that he was far from the only one who had suffered. This boy, too, had been cast aside in every place he resided. And though their pain paralleled in some respects, it diverged in others. The boy showed the prince that the cruel world was much bigger than he thought.

“The two of them were quick to find common ground. The suffering in the world had to stop— it was easy to agree on that. And easier, somehow, to agree that the two of them had to be the ones to do something about it. They decided they were going to change the world.”

“Did they…?” Cyril’s voice was faint now. He was barely awake from the sound of it.

“Well, so much for the story. You just want to get right to the point, don’t you?” Claude teased, letting out a puff of amusement. “Yes, they did.”

“Mm… We will, too…” With that, the other drifted into sleep. Claude smiled, reaching for the blanket to pull over Cyril.

“Yeah, we will.”

The terrible feeling wasn’t gone, but there was nothing he could do about it just then. Besides, his eyelids grew heavier with every passing second. He decided just to let them fall.

For now, he needed rest. And knowing Cyril was there beside him made rest come easy.

* * *

As it turned out, the terrible feeling in Claude’s stomach never went away. Even as weeks passed, his dread only grew. And for good reason, too. The little class trip to the holy tomb couldn’t have gone worse, really— Edelgard declaring war on the church was the last thing anyone was expecting. Every passing day was one day closer to an impending attack. One day closer to facing the painful uncertainty of a future that had come to strike them all.

Since the two of them grew close, Cyril was rarely seen away from Claude’s side. Those days, he was away from the older even less. The boy often clung to the hem of Claude’s sleeve, glaring at everyone who walked by with a facade of defensive vigor. Claude knew, of course, that Cyril’s grim expressions were just that— a facade. He always acted stronger than he was whether he realized it himself or not. In reality, he was just as scared as everyone else. If not moreso. Though young, he had survived a war before, and barely lived to tell of the misery it wrought him.

Claude knew of this pain and he wasn’t willing to let Cyril go through it all again. He wasn’t willing to let a single scratch befall his friend. If there had to be war, then he wanted Cyril to have nothing to do with it. The future they planned for was a hard one, yet it was hopeful— a break of dawn in the agony that had been the two of their lives. Claude always had his dreams, of course, but they meant something new when he met Cyril. They meant someone he cared for so much could have a chance at peace. His dreams always felt distant before then— something bigger than himself. Encompassing of the entire world. But Cyril brought it all back down to Earth. He reminded Claude just what he was fighting for— he made Claude want to see it all come true more, even, than the night his childish self conceptualized such dreams.

Cyril knew of those dreams. In a much looser sense than Claude did himself, but they were known to him nonetheless. They were important and they were something he wanted to protect. That’s the way he was raised, after all— by learning to  _ protect _ . The army, the Gonerils, the monastery, Lady Rhea.

And now Claude von Riegan.

Yes, Claude had to stay alive in order for his vision to be realized. But the way he saw it, Cyril’s life was just as important. Cyril, unfortunately, disagreed. And there wasn’t time to argue the matter, either— Claude had to focus on keeping Cyril safe.

“You should head to Derdriu early,” Claude said one night, tone firm. “Within the next couple days.” They were in his room, Claude backwards in his chair and Cyril settled on the edge of the bed. The younger boy’s expression twisted with irritation— the exact reaction Claude was expecting.

“And just leave ya here alone? No chance in hell! I said I’d always be with ya, Claude.”

“I know,” Claude smiled yet his eyes shone with nothing but concern. “It won’t be for long. I’ll be right behind you, all right?”

Cyril shook his head, jumping to his feet. “No! I’m not leavin’ and that’s that! I don’t care how weak ya think I am, I’m—”

“Woah now, slow down kiddo— I didn’t say anything like that,” Claude was quick to interject. Once Cyril got it in his head that someone was looking down on him, he always found a way to get himself into trouble in the name of proving his worth. The upcoming attack was the last place Claude wanted the other to start acting reckless. “You’re one of the strongest people here, you know that? You’ve grown more over these last few moons than the rest of the class combined, I’d bet. It’s not about that.”

“Then what is it?”

Claude let out a sigh. “I need you to be safe, Cyril. Who knows how ugly it’s going to get here? By the sounds of it, the new emperor has quite a bit of soldiers coming our way. I know the knights won’t admit defeat so easily, but it won’t be pretty. So—”

“And that’s just it—!” Cyril cut him off with a shout. “That’s why I’m not leavin’— ‘cause I can’t just…  _ leave _ ya here ‘n not know what happened. If you’re okay or if you’re hurt or—” His voice broke and he stopped, hands clasping over his mouth in a show of embarrassment. Eyes glassy, they darted away.

“Hey…” Claude rose from his chair. It only took a couple steps before Cyril was tugged against his chest. The other flinched, but was quick to cling to his shirt, face nestling into his shoulder. When Claude spoke again, his tone was calm and low— as reassuring as he could make it in spite of his own unease. “I’m not the kind of man to roll over and die in a place like this, Cyril. We have work to do. I’m not going anywhere until we see it all come true.”

“I know… I know that, but… how can ya be so sure…?” Cyril was shaking now. “I can’t… I can’t lose you, Claude.” His voice was so weak. He was terrified— the fear seeped into his every word and it broke Claude’s heart. He had that fear, too. The fear of losing something that had become so important to him in such a short amount of time. He couldn’t lose Cyril. If there was such a thing as an absolute truth, that was it— Claude needed Cyril by his side.

Gently grabbing hold of the other’s shoulders, Claude pushed him away just enough to see his face. “Because I made a promise, didn’t I? That you wouldn’t be alone anymore. You really think I’d let something like this get in the way?”

“I did, too—!” Cyril chimed in. “I promised you’d never be alone again… So I’m not gonna leave— I’m not gonna let ya get hurt—!” A tear rolled down his cheek as he spoke. Claude swiped it away with his thumb before ruffling the boy’s hair.

“All right. But stay near me, okay? We’ll fight by each other’s side. I can’t think of a better friend to fight with, anyway.” A pause. There was something he had been wanting to say, but he was never quite sure how. He figured years were likely to go by before he could put his feelings to words— express what he really thought. But in that moment, he fought down the anxiety that began building at the back of his throat. Swallowed all reservations he had about being vulnerable. Because his feelings, he decided, were something Cyril needed to know. Something he  _ deserved _ to know. So with a somewhat labored breath, Claude continued.

“Hm… no, scratch that. You’re so much more than that.” Cyril looked up to him and Claude smiled back— a genuine expression this time, one where his eyes burned with as much warmth as he felt when he looked at the other. “You’re my ally and my friend… but neither of those words quite capture what you mean to me now. We may not be connected by blood, but what does that matter? Now that we know each other, our hearts are connected. You’re like a brother to me, Cyril. And that’s not something I can say lightly.”

Claude moved to wipe more tears from the other’s cheeks. They were flowing freely now and Cyril’s mouth moved as though he wanted to speak, but couldn’t. Claude worried for a moment that he had overwhelmed him. It certainly felt like he said too much, but he couldn’t regret it now. No one had ever called Cyril family before. If Claude hadn’t already known that, he would’ve been able to tell by the look in the other’s eyes alone.

When Cyril was able to find his voice, it was broken and shaky and his words were unsure yet sincere. “I— me too… You’re like my brother, too! I…” He paused for a moment, sniffling and casting his gaze downwards. “Um… can I… call ya that? My brother…”

It was then where Claude realized that maybe he wasn’t so different from Cyril. They had lived completely different lives, sure. But no one ever called Claude family, either. And it wasn’t like he had a lack of it— he had his parents and his siblings and all his extended family. None of them played the part, though. He never knew what home felt like until he met the one in front of him.

His chest was tight. If he let his guard down for even a second, he would start crying, too. So he laughed instead, pulling the other back into an embrace. “Of course you can, Cyril! That’s what I am— your big brother. Which is why I have to look after you, right? Even if our paths diverge… I know we’ll see each other again.”

Claude felt Cyril shake his head against his shoulder. “I’m still not goin’ anywhere, Claude.”

“Ah. Well, worth a shot, right? In that case… I’ll make my promise again. I’ll always be by your side, okay? You can’t count on much in this world, but you can count on that.” He felt a nod this time.

“Yeah… Same goes for you.”

Despite the warmth beating with his heart, the outcome of their conversation was far from what he was hoping for. If Claude had his way, Cyril would already be en route to Derdriu. But he knew he never could have expected the other to agree with such terms. There was disappointment, of course, and the fear of what tomorrow would bring. But most of all, there was determination.

If Cyril wasn’t going to seek refuge, then Claude would see to his brother’s safety himself.

* * *

The battle raged on about as terribly as one would expect. Soldiers from either side fell all around Claude as he pushed forward, one hand on his sword and the other tight around Cyril’s arm. He could see Edelgard in the distance, donned in armor and surrounded by imperial knights. As soon as she was brought down, this would be over.

He would have considered ending the battle himself— thought through the feasibility of drawing his bow and getting a clean shot all while seeing to the safety of the one beside him— but he wasn’t allowed the time needed to think. A terrible screech filled the air and he flinched for just a second before the source of such noise revealed itself to him. A demonic beast— airborne and dragon-like— crashed to the ground mere feet from where he stood. He stumbled from the shockwave of the collision, stabilized by Cyril pushing back on his shoulder.

“You okay?!” Cyril’s voice was loud, fighting to rise above the sounds of war. Claude gave a nod, knowing there wasn’t enough time to give more of a response. And sure enough, the beast shrieked again, rising back into the sky as though it had never fallen.

There were knights below it, pointing javelins and aiming arrows. Claude reached for his own bow, releasing Cyril’s arm to grab an arrow. Cyril followed suit. They fired concurrently. And their combined arrows must have won the attention of the beast as it soon turned to them. In the same moment, Claude felt a burst of wind from the beast’s wings, and he was sent flying backwards. With an awful crack, his back slammed against brick, and everything went black.

His ears were ringing. He struggled to breathe. The wind must have been knocked out of him, he figured. But as his breath gradually came back, so did the noise of clashing blades and falling rocks until he was able to open his eyes.

He must not have been out for long. Maybe it was only a few seconds. A few seconds too long, he decided, as he realized with a creeping horror that Cyril was nowhere in sight. Panic drew him up to his feet and made him ignore his pain as he darted forward, calling his brother’s name. Edelgard was gone, too, but the battle hadn’t ended. It hadn’t even calmed down. What was going on?

Claude could only move so fast now, but he forced himself to move faster. The only pause he gave himself was the moment he left the walls of Garreg Mach. There were more imperial soldiers marching towards them— thousands, maybe. This was it, wasn’t it? How were they supposed to keep fighting back like this?

A rush of wind shook him from his momentary stupor. The demonic beast from earlier…? Claude glanced upwards and… no. Something much larger. And much more destructive at that. The creature landed with no discretion, crushing houses beneath its weight. Whatever was going on, the chances of survival were growing more and more slim. He had to find Cyril.

He took up running again, knocking imperial soldiers out of the way with his sword. The clenching panic in his chest was greater than the pain in his spine— he would fight forever if he had to. It certainly felt like forever. The opposing army was endless, the crowd of them growing thicker. Before long, he could barely so much as catch a glimpse of Serios armor in the corner of his eye.

_ Where is he? _ Claude’s mind screamed.  _ Where is— _

“Cyril!”

Claude stopped dead, head whipping towards the voice. It wasn’t his— someone else had spotted Cyril. Through the shoulders of two soldiers he could see a flash of blonde hair. Catherine? With the hilt of his sword he pushed the soldiers away. And there was his brother.

Standing with a firm grip on his axe, he stood staring at an outstretched hand in front of him. Catherine yelled his name, beckoning him to come forward.

“We have to find her!” Catherine shouted, a wild and panicked look in her eyes. “Quickly! Ah—” Her attention switched to Claude. “Claude, get over here— Lady Rhea is gone.” So the knights would be off to look for her, then. Of course— protecting Rhea was of their main objectives. It was what he commanded of his fellow students when the battle began. And if she was gone, that meant everyone had to do everything in their power to find her.

But he didn’t want to.

Call it blasphemous— he didn’t care. Claude had to run. He had to survive. And it was clear that fighting was no longer an option.

He reached out his hand and called Cyril’s name.

“We have to get out of here!” he said. The boy turned to look at him, grip tightening on his axe. Catherine’s eyes widened, looking utterly betrayed.

“Cyril!” she shouted again. “We have to look for her.  _ Now _ .”

For one terrifying moment, Claude thought Cyril was going to obey her calls. He looked back the knight’s way, then back to Claude. A conflicted glint shone through his eyes and in the way his grip shook. With painstaking hesitation, Cyril took a hand off his axe— 

—and took Claude’s hand.

The betrayal on Catherine’s face deepened.

Claude figured she would spend her energy looking for Rhea, not running after the two of them, but a bit of urgency wouldn’t hurt. He tugged Cyril along quickly, weaving through the soldiers and looking for the best possible escape route. Small as he was, Cyril struggled to keep up, but managed to match Claude’s pace well enough.

Once the two of them graduated from dodging soldiers to dodging trees, Claude almost found it in himself to feel relieved. Almost. The forest felt much safer, but it would be hours before they were truly in the clear. Who knew what was lurking in the shadows of the pines? Monsters, reinforcements— the possibilities were endless.

He wished those possibilities were a bit more concise, though, when he felt Cyril trip three times in half as many minutes. While his stamina was built, there was no way he could chase after Claude at full speed forever. So he figured if it allowed them to get farther in one night, they could afford to rest for a moment or two. He slowed, Cyril following suit, and looked down to the other to check on his condition. Doubled over, labored breathing— Cyril didn’t look  _ well _ , but he wasn’t injured. That, at least, was something to be relieved about.

“You… you all right there, kiddo?” Claude asked between his own breaths. The other nodded quickly.

“Yeah, we… we gotta keep—” Cyril’s eyes widened before he could finish. Even his breathing came to a halt. His horrified stare was fixated on something behind Claude and Claude’s stomach churned with dread. In the time he could have turned to look, he froze instead, all because the din of a sniffing animal alerted him to what was there. The sound was sharp and loud, meaning it certainly didn’t belong to something cute and cuddly. And judging by the look Cyril wore, it may have already been too late to avoid coming face to face with the creature’s ugly snout. Or beak— whatever the thing had protruding from its neck, that hardly mattered. All that mattered was that he grab his bow and arrow fast enough to defend the boy in front of him.

He moved to do just that, but somehow, Cyril moved faster, and Claude’s heart fell to his stomach. It had nothing to do with the way Cyril’s full weight sent him clattering to the ground, or how the air was forced from his lungs upon impact. It was far worse than any throbbing pain in his back or his head, and it happened so quickly he couldn’t be sure it happened at all. But such denial was nothing short of wishful.

Cyril was snapped up between the jaws of a demonic beast; the likes of which Claude had beaten many times before, but never had he felt such blinding anger at the sight of one. He could hear nothing but the blood rushing in his ears as he fought for his breath back, finishing the reach for an arrow he failed before, just a half second too late. His body pivoted, bow drawn. Everything felt slow. A second indistinguishable from a day. No speed could be quick enough to free the other from the beast’s terrible grasp, and Claude felt every aching pulse of his quickened heartbeat drag on like the sluggish flaps of a great dragon’s wings.

One arrow was fired, then another, and another— countless draws of his bow peppered the head and neck of the monster. It wailed in pain with every other strike, but refused to let go of Cyril until its balance was lost. As the creature tipped over with a resounding thud, Claude dashed forward to take Cyril up into his arms.

Where his breathing had been strained from exhaustion before, it rattled with complications from deep wounds now. There was no time to panic. No matter how much Claude wanted to scream, there was no time— the beast would rise again and he had to get Cyril away from it before then.

He wasn’t sure where he was running. Above the sounds of his harsh breathing and pounding heart, Claude couldn’t pick out the ambience of battle. As long as he wasn’t headed back towards Garreg Mach, he didn’t care where the two of them ended up. He didn’t care how terrible his sides cramped or legs ached— any place he could tend to Cyril was good enough for him. The wounds he obtained— Claude got merely a glance at them, but they weren’t good. He had to get a better look at them. He had to do  _ something _ .

Just when he felt his lungs might burst, Claude finally stopped. There had been no trace of the monster going after him. It didn’t mean they were safe, but he wasn’t sure Cyril could go much longer without a proper look at his injuries. Claude knelt down and carefully propped the other up against a tree. He hoped and wished with everything he had that the wounds weren’t as bad as he thought— that the warm liquid he felt soaking into his shirt as he ran was exaggerated by paranoia.

Cyril’s eyes were squeezed shut, his jaw clenched. Every breath he took sounded wrong. With a shaking hand, Claude reached forward to brush the hair from the other’s forehead. One final delay before he looked down and felt the walls of his stomach line with the very dread he hoped so much wouldn’t come.

There was blood, and a lot of it. Claude fell dizzy at the sight— not that the measure of it was something he had never seen before, but more the person it came from was unacceptable. Cyril was never meant to be on the receiving end of such pain. He was supposed to be safe— even in the most dire of circumstances, he was supposed to be behind Claude, guarded from harm. But Cyril had taken the offensive, forcing Claude into a defended position he didn’t want. He had to survive. Of course he did— he wasn’t done with this world and wouldn’t be for quite some time. But nothing was worth the expense of the life he held most dear.

Claude shook his head. The life wasn’t expended— not yet— and there was no time to act like it was. He tore the cape from his shoulder and shred it down to strips to wrap them around the younger boy’s wounds. It was worst on his chest. A terrible sign, but something Claude couldn’t let shake him. There were scrapes on Cyril’s arms and legs, too, and they all had to be tended to.

“Can you hear me, Cyril?” Claude kicked himself for how shaky his words were. The fear was evident in his voice. That wasn’t what Cyril needed— he needed reassurance. Though it was obvious Claude was in desperate need for a bit of his own.

Cyril opened his eyes, but only slightly, as though the simple action was more painful than it was worth.

“It’s going… going to be all right, Cyril.” Claude bit back the urge to click his tongue at the failed attempt to lighten his tone. “Everything is… it’s all fine— you’re okay. I don’t…” He turned, paused for a moment, and listened before bringing his attention back to the other. He chanced a smile and a laugh, though it came out nervous and disjointed. “I don’t hear anything! I… we’re fine out here, now. We’re…”

What the hell was he supposed to do? They were in the forest— gods knew where— with imminent danger on at least two sides an unknowable distance away. There was a village around there somewhere, but where? What direction? And how far? Not to mention the inherent risk of being out in the woods at any time, much more with a rapidly setting sun.

Cyril needed a healer. Obviously. But how long did Claude have to wander aimlessly looking for one before it was too late? Then again, he really didn’t have much of a choice.

“Sorry, kiddo— this might hurt a bit.”

As carefully as he could, Claude tucked his arms under the other and lifted him. His arms shook, barely able to carry the weight any longer, but he forced them to.

“We’ll find you a healer, okay? You’re okay.”

Cyril didn’t respond, but the rasping of his struggled breathing was all Claude needed to hear. As terrible as it sounded, it meant Cyril was alive. And that was what Claude had to focus on— he was  _ alive _ . He couldn’t give in to the apprehension of the alternative. There were too many other things to think about; like what they were going to do once Cyril was healed. How they would get to Derdriu. How he was going to scold Cyril for his terrifying self-destructive display.

He walked as quickly as he could, a new ache making itself known every other step. Claude’s own breath grew labored again. He silenced it every now and then for only a moment, making sure he could still hear the stuttering of Cyril’s lungs. But as it grew darker, so did Cyril’s breathing grow quieter. And Claude’s sense of dread grew louder.

“You still hear me, Cyril…?” he tried, voice weaker than even before. The only answer he got was a weak nuzzle against his shoulder. What was supposed to be reassuring only made Claude break more. Cyril couldn’t talk— he could barely even move— yet he spent what little energy he had offering Claude a comforting gesture.

All at once, Claude’s knees gave out. He didn’t want them too— of course not. But the mixture of grief, adrenaline, and fatigue overwhelmed his body until he no longer had control of it. He was able to clutch Cyril close to him, somehow, in a desperate attempt to save the boy from falling to the rough forest floor as he himself did, the skin on his shins torn into by patterns of sharp pebbles through the fabric of his clothes.

Cyril let out what sounded like a gasp— sharp and pained— and Claude rushed to mutter apologies. With what remained of his strength, he set Cyril down in front of him to make sure no further damage was done. It was hard to see, though. Not only through the darkness but through his swirling thoughts as well.

He wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep going like that. Without light or direction, it was possible he would only hurt Cyril more. Or what if he brought them farther away from town? That wouldn’t do any good. He glanced at Cyril, trying hard to focus on him through blurred vision. The other was in pain, his rattling breaths still strained but quiet. He needed rest as much as he needed medical attention. And since Claude wasn’t sure how soon medical attention could come, he figured maybe a little bit of rest was all he could do for Cyril. At that moment, at least.

He dragged himself forward, stopping right next to the other, and pulled Cyril as gently as he could into his arms. The other gripped onto his shirt, so weak Claude could barely feel it. “We’ll stop here for a bit, all right?” Claude said, hoping his voice didn’t sound as fearful as it felt. “And then I’ll find you some help. I promise— you’re going to be okay, Cyril. You’re going to be okay.” There was a part of him that worried Cyril couldn’t hear him. That his reassurances were just as much for himself alone as they were futile. But he shook those worries away and focused on wrapping his arms around his brother to keep him warm. Morning couldn’t come soon enough. Not even with how quickly his eyelids dropped or how fast he was flung into nightmares, it couldn’t come soon enough.

It did, though. The icy air of dawn awoke Claude with a jolt. Reality hit him before his consciousness did, his mind whirring a mile a minute as he felt the weight against his side and remembered in a drowsy stupor what it was. There was daylight— though there wasn’t much of it yet— and he had to keep moving.

He was careful not to rustle Cyril around too much, but nudged him just a little. “Hey— you okay, kiddo…?” His voice was still thick with sleep. “We need to keep going.” He was met with no answer, and suddenly the icy air felt as though it had clawed its way inside his chest. “... Cyril?” Still nothing.

Claude wasn’t as gentle as panic began to set in. He shifted around, taking Cyril by the shoulders to get a good look at him. The boy’s eyes were closed and Claude could no longer hear the rattling of his pained breathing. His own breath stopped. For how long, he wasn’t sure. But soon he had begun to run, Cyril in his arms, in any and all directions as fast as he possibly could. He was disoriented and the daylight did little to make his location known to him, but it didn’t matter. Finding the village was what mattered. Getting help was what mattered. If he had to run forever, then so be it.

And he did find the village, but it didn’t feel real somehow. Nothing really did. A nice old lady found him harrowed by the village walls and brought him to the nearest healer. He was sat down on a bench beside a bed. Offered some water or tea or something, but he didn’t respond. He couldn’t even hear their words, really. He didn’t want to. Because he knew what they were saying. He could see in front of him— could see Cyril laid out on the bed, unmoving and without breath. He didn’t want to hear them.

He didn’t want to hear anything in that moment. Didn’t want to see anything or feel— he wanted to disappear. To stop his mind from replaying the scene from the night before; Cyril shoving him out of the way. It flashed before his eyes over and over and over again— the screeches of the demonic beast still rang in his ears. At some point, he must have become the patient, because he was laying in a bed not unlike the last place he saw his brother. Everything hurt. He couldn’t move— he didn’t want to.

It wasn’t fair, he thought. All he wanted to do was survive. To make it one year after another until he saw his dreams come true. But now, he didn’t even want that. The world could change with or without him and he couldn’t find the strength to care. He thought about the first time he saw Cyril. And the second. And all the times after that. How the other grew gradually warmer to him and how, in turn, Claude himself felt warmer when he looked upon the world. A world which had been so cruel to so many and gave him no shortage of his own hardships. A world waiting to be saved, he thought. It was a dream he spoke of to few, but Cyril believed in him.

Cyril always believed in him. So much the other decided it was better he lived. And Claude had always tried so, so hard to live. But he always did it alone— never did he think the price would outweigh the payoff.

Then again, he never thought he would have someone by his side. And it seemed he was right about that after all.

A younger version of himself would never want to turn back time. He would be looking forward to the future— to all the possibilities it held. Because the past held nothing in it but pain. Stagnancy. Blistered hope that someday, everything would be better. And that past self was from merely a few days prior, when the future seemed grim, but still held immeasurable potential. But that part of him felt dead. Felt about as reachable as his brother, frozen forever now in the past. He wanted Cyril back. He wanted to turn back time. He didn’t care what it meant— if he had to live a life of misery again, then so be it. Cyril made it all worth it. And Cyril would make it all worth it again.

But there was no turning back time. No going back to the familiar aches of the past. All there was left was the pain of the future that he knew he couldn’t escape— what could be a lifetime of agony and regret all splayed out before him. His eyes burned, empty of tears, and he closed them. If he was to face a lifetime alone— full of greater pain than all he had before— he wanted a few more moments to himself. A few more moments to squeeze his eyelids as tight as they would shut and keep the weight of reality off him.

Just a few more moments of hoping that when he opened them again, Cyril would be there, just as Claude wished he always would be.


	2. Crimson Clouds

Claude awoke with a start. His heart beat rough against his chest, breath harsh and uneven. Where was he…? A few hasty turns of his head told him that he was in his dormitory. Early sunlight filtered through the windows, the usual quiet of morning settled in the still air.

A nightmare. That’s all it was— a terrible nightmare.

He looked around a bit more, searching for a familiar face, but Cyril was nowhere to be found. He wouldn’t let that make him panic, though. The other was often up before him, off to get some work done before classes began. Claude would see him soon enough. So he let himself revel in relief instead, taking a moment to lay back on his bed and soak in the silence.

There was no ambience of war. No fighting, no screams. The only sounds were the creaking of floorboards as others awoke and some birds singing outside. It was okay. Everything was okay.

The nightmare left him with little appetite, so Claude just got dressed as quickly as possible and made his way down to the Golden Deer classroom. Everything seemed normal as he walked— students talked in the halls, complaining about everyday tasks. How much homework they had, how much they dreaded training that day, things like that.

And that normalcy… was strange. Of course everyone was training as hard as they could and Claude could see how such would be draining. But homework? As far as he knew, the professors stopped assigning frivolous busy work as soon as war was declared. Bigger fish to fry and all. He shrugged it off, though. What was wrong with a little peace of mind amongst friends? If they wanted to complain about the mundane to distract from the critical, that was their prerogative.

The classroom was all but empty when Claude arrived. Lysithea was there, flipping through the pages of a book. Marianne and Ignatz, too, absorbed in their own tasks. The rest would arrive before long.

Claude said his good mornings and settled in his place at the front of the room. But even as he sat still, his pulse never lulled back to a normal pace. He was haunted instead by flashing images taken from his dream. The clashing of weapons, the crashing of walls, the earth-shattering wail of a demonic beast— they played over and over everywhere he looked. The desk, the walls, the back of his eyelids. Blood and frantic footsteps in the dirt of the surrounding forest, a small house in town and the pitying gazes of its inhabitants as they watched him sob.

He found himself looking for Cyril again. It felt like a lifetime since he took a seat, but nothing had changed— still only the same three students were present. Surely _someone_ else would have turned up by then. But he tried taking the lack of attendance as assurance that everything was all right— Cyril just hadn’t turned up yet. Same as everyone else.

A shake of his head did little to clear his thoughts. But there was no use in dwelling over dreams, he figured. He took a book from his satchel and opened to where he left off. Several pages passed where he failed to absorb a single word, though, and it was then he could no longer ignore the itching impatience he felt. Where the hell was everyone? And as though on cue, he heard someone slump into the chair beside him. A relieved smile crossed his face, paired with a matching breath of air, as he turned to give his greeting.

“Ah, there you are! I was starting to— huh?”

Where he expected to see Cyril was instead an out-of-breath Hilda, gasping for air.

“Well… I guess that’s… the good thing about our professor…” she managed. “Can’t be late if the teacher isn’t here, right?” She laughed. And she must have been expecting Claude to laugh, too, because she gave him a rather odd look when he didn’t. “Um… Claude? Hello? Anybody in there?”

So he did laugh. Even if the delay made it a bit awkward. “That’s right. Looks like you dodged a hefty arrow this time, Hilda. Where _is_ Teach, anyway?” He turned, glancing around the classroom. He didn’t really care where the professor was. If Hilda was here, that meant class already started. So where was Cyril? There were a few times where he was late before— caught up in a job that made him lose track of time— but he always showed up as quickly as he could.

Since Hilda took the spot next to him, Claude thought that maybe Cyril decided to sit somewhere else. But he was still nowhere to be found. Which made sense— Cyril wasn’t comfortable with anyone but Claude, so where would he go?

Claude’s hands began to shake. He heard the shriek of the beast again, saw Cyril propped up against the tree, fighting to breathe...

“I’m here, I’m here!” a voice boomed from the doorway. “Everyone sit down!” The owner of the voice was Professor Manuela, yet another surprise. And why not? Everything else seemed to be out of place.

Manuela hurried up to the desk, slamming some books down and cursing when papers flew everywhere as she did. She was much more disheveled than Hilda had been, scrambling not only for air in her lungs but for a semblance of order in her teaching materials. Maybe it was a bad time, but things had gotten a little too weird and Claude had to start asking questions.

“Hey— where’s Teach?” he inquired. A few students laughed. At what, he wasn’t sure. And then Manuela turned to him, mouth downturned and glaring eyes that suggested she had a rather rough night. Well, at least he wasn’t the only one.

“Hah, hah. Very funny, Claude,” she said, tone clear that she found absolutely nothing funny about it. “I may not look my _best_ this morning, but I’m still your teacher. And I still expect all of you to turn in your essays.”

The classroom nearly erupted into chaos from that.

“We had essays?” Raphael cried out.

“Yes, of course you— hold on.” Manuela shuffled around for a folder and opened it, eyes narrowing as they scanned its contents. “... Huh. Maybe not. Well, regardless, I still expect you all to pay attention!”

Claude’s stomach twisted. Manuela was never their teacher— Byleth was. But a quick scan around the room showed him that no one else saw a problem. And Cyril never showed up to class. No one commented on that, either. Every student went along with every motion as if it was all perfectly normal. In fact, the only abnormality seemed to be him.

“Claude, you feeling okay?” Raphael asked him halfway through the day. “You’ve been pretty quiet.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Lysithea chimed in.

“He was all spaced out this morning, too,” said Hilda. “It was like you didn’t know who I was for a second.”

“Now, now— thanks for the concern, everyone. But I’m fine! No need to waste your energy on me.” Claude flashed them all his best smile. “Just stayed up a bit too late last night. You know how it is.”

“Oh, really? And might I ask what compelled you to stay awake until such early hours?” The sound of Lorenz’s voice alone was enough to exhaust him. As if he didn’t already have enough to deal with— he wasn’t exactly jumping for joy at the prospect of justifying his presence for the fourth time that week. Or whatever number he was on. He wasn’t quite sure he even knew what day it was anymore.

Everyone was so carefree. You never would have guessed a war had been declared even though he swore just the day before that the entire monastery was thick with a grim air. Had the war been part of his nightmare? Did he dream up an entire moon?

As soon as class was over, Claude was ready to investigate. He went to the bulletin board by the Black Eagles’ classroom and looked at the date. Last he checked, it was the Lone Moon. But the calendar in front of him claimed it was the Blue Sea, just three months after classes began. How was that possible? No, that wasn’t enough information. He couldn’t let a piece of paper make him lose composure— there had to be more to this. A prank, maybe? Had his class grown so tired of his own jokes they decided to pull a fast one on him?

Wishful thinking.

He turned— a bit too abruptly as he ran straight into Byleth, seemingly on their way out from the classroom beside him.

“Woah— sorry, Teach, didn’t see you there.” Byleth shook their head to signal it wasn’t a problem, then started back on their way. But Claude wasn’t done. “Gotta say, it was weird not having you around today. Never really thought of you as the joking type.” The other stopped and turned to him. Their expression was neutral, but Claude caught sight of the tiniest knit of their brow. “Come on, you can tell me. In fact, I’ll commend you! Must be hard getting so many people in on a ruse.”

There was a moment of quiet. And then, “Are you feeling all right?”

Yeah, wishful thinking.

“Hm… Seeing as you’re far from the first person who’s asked me that today, maybe not. But no need to worry yourself! Must just have something to do with skipping breakfast. I’ll go take care of that.”

He didn’t, though. How was he supposed to sit down and enjoy a meal? Something was wrong. Well, _nothing_ was wrong, actually. Which was precisely the problem. Had he really lost moons of his life? Been sent back to simpler times? No— if it was that easy, Byleth would still be in his classroom. And Cyril would be with him.

So maybe something _was_ wrong, but it was only wrong to him. And that meant he was the only one who could figure out what it was. He decided to start where he left off— by looking for his little brother. He had to be somewhere, right?

He had to be.

* * *

Cyril, more often than not, was nothing short of a nightmare to locate. His job took him to every part of the monastery— some areas requiring multiple visits a day— and his scattered mind shuffled the order in an unguessable way. He did, however, have his favorite places. The greenhouse, for one, where he spent what little free time he had tending to the flowers he was fond of. And the library for another, the place he made his makeshift home before Claude allowed— or politely demanded, really— Cyril use of his own room. The two of these places were conveniently located on opposite sides of the grounds, so if Claude simply traveled between them over and over again, he was sure to run into Cyril. Eventually.

The task wasn’t daunting in his head. The ache in his calves as the sun began to set begged to differ. Still no sign of Cyril, he was at least able to gather more information about his odd surroundings. And the more he listened to people talk, the more he was certain that _he_ was the odd one. The weather, first off, was much more suited to summer than it was to spring. What’s more, from the whispers he picked up on it seemed the students were recovering from the aftermath of the clash with Lord Lonato. It was a heavy blow indeed— he remembered just how quiet class had been after that. The weeks of solemn grief that ensued after witnessing the death of villagers and their ilk became frightfully close to normal.

Though it was something he could remember quite clearly, the memory didn’t align with his observations. Instead of his own class being the ones affected, it was the students of the Black Eagles who were awfully distant. And it didn’t take much listening in to discover that indeed, it was them who went up against the Lord of Gaspard, not the Golden Deer. The only constant Claude found were the feelings of the Blue Lions who, aside from the adopted son of the deceased Lord himself, remained personally unaffected by the event.

The discovery of all this filled him with terrible dread. Though the changes may have seemed minor from a distance, he knew they weren’t for those they affected. The Black Eagles students, now all with the blood of civilians on their hands, certainly wouldn’t have thought of the shift as minor. If they even realized a shift had occurred at all, which Claude was willing to bet they didn’t. So what did that mean for him? Fear gripped his chest. Every second that went by without him catching sight of Cyril furthered his worry that maybe he would never see the boy again. Even if time had somehow been rewound, the dead were still gone.

His eyes burned at the thought. It was when he was busy fighting back the start of tears where he finally saw a familiar figure— one he had to rub his eyes at before realizing it was real.

“Cyril!”

The other was by the staircase— about to ascend towards the library, Claude figured. He turned at the sound of his name, eyebrows knit together in preemptive irritation. His worries all but forgotten, Claude closed their distance with a relieved and wide smile.

“Here you are! I’ve been looking everywhere for you— just can’t stay in one place for too long, huh?”

Cyril met his words with an unamused blink. “What do ya want, Claude?”

At that, Claude’s heart sank. The coldness in Cyril’s tone was not unlike the first of their interactions. And now that his initial burst of excitement ebbed, he could see that Cyril wasn’t wearing any of the clothes he bought him, either. Instead were the rags he used to wear, the only identifiable factor the dark green scarf he always kept tied around his belt no matter the outfit. Just like that, the dread returned to Claude.

“Oh, y’know. Just wondered if you had some time for tea, is all.” Though the threat of tears became much harder to hold back, Claude had to keep composure. “Out of everyone who works here, I think I know the least about you.”

“So what, you gotta start stickin’ your nose into _my_ business, too?” Cyril huffed. “I’m too busy for your games, Claude. Go bother someone else.” Cyril turned, then, and started on his way up the stairs.

“Hey now— the least you can do is give me a chance!” Claude followed after him, though he stopped at the bottom stair. “Don’t you—”

_—know who I am?_

They were his own words from long ago; the first time he managed to stop Cyril for more than a few seconds. And they struck him so harshly he forgot to breathe. Maybe it was the fact that he knew what the answer would be if he managed to utter the words again.

_What are you to me?_

He could hear it in Cyril’s voice without it being said aloud. The first time he heard the words, they merely shocked him. The second time would be devastating— something his heart couldn’t take. And he noticed, then, that Cyril had ceased and turned to him with a hint of concern mingled within his agita. If Claude looked half as horrified as he felt, he would need to rectify it immediately.

“Don’t I… what?” Cyril asked, careful.

“Don’t you want something to eat?” The speed in which Claude could erase all traces of true feelings from both face and tone astounded even himself at times. “I mean, it’s like I said; I’ve been keeping an eye out for you all day. So you must have been on the move this whole time! Breaks are important, you know.”

“It wouldn’t be a break if I had to listen to all your questions. Really, I got a lotta work to do.” He started up the stairs again and this time, Claude did nothing to stop him. Instead, he slunk back to his own room, feeling rather dejected.

_It’s all been undone,_ he thought. It hurt, though he wasn’t sure if it was _allowed_ to hurt. Cyril was alive, after all. And wasn’t that all that mattered? That the other was all right— that there was a chance to make sure no harm befell him to begin with. That was great, of course. But… 

Claude scowled up at his ceiling, having laid back on his bed to process the strange day behind him. His little brother. Was that still something he could say? Not say, maybe, but he could think it at least. Even if time was twisted in a way where Cyril didn’t remember their time together, Claude certainly couldn’t forget. Cyril wasn’t an easy person to get along with, but he could put in the work again. He _would_. If he really was so lucky as to receive another chance, he would be sure not to mess it up.

But even with his newfound resolve, Claude was exhausted. The thought of sleep was a little terrifying. What if _that_ was the dream and he would awake again alone in the village clinic? If that was the case, he would have to face it at some point. So he let out a sigh, heart heavy at the thought of whatever he would wake to the next morning, and closed his eyes.

* * *

_“And why would I wanna do that…?”_

_“Oh c’mon, don’t you want to try? You’re always in the kitchen cleaning and stuff— might as well try your hand as some cooking, right?” Claude grinned, pointing at Cyril with the wisk he held in his right hand. “And I’m in charge of desserts tonight, so that’s even more fun!”_

_Cyril frowned. Whether he was angry or just unsure, Claude couldn’t tell. “I’ve… never cooked nothin’ before. I dunno what to do.”_

_“Well that’s why I’m here! To help.”_

_“Sounds more like someone skipped out on ya ‘n_ I’m _the help.”_

_It was Claude’s turn to frown. That may have been true, but it wasn’t his only motivator. He wanted to get to know Cyril better. And at that point, he had been trying for weeks to get a word in. The other wouldn’t let him assist with his own assigned tasks, but Claude figured if_ he _needed the help, maybe it would be different._

_“All right, so maybe Hilda’s faking a cold. But what else is new? And really, she’s helping me by doing that. Somehow my workload manages to increase tenfold when she’s around. So, what do you say?” Claude put on his best smile. “Care to help a guy out?”_

_Did he really expect his little display to work? Of course not. Cyril was hardly liberal with his rejections. In fact, Claude was so sure Cyril would walk away that he was almost confused when the other grabbed a bowl instead, albeit with an exasperated sigh._

_“Fine. What do I do?”_

_Claude could barely contain his surprise, but he managed to push it back with the worry that a single falter would scare Cyril off. He smiled— a much more genuine expression from his earlier exaggerated one— and pushed the container of flour towards him. “Start by sifting some of this, will you?”_

_“Sure.” Cyril got to work. Claude could hardly believe it._

_“Thanks kiddo, I owe you one.” The other didn’t answer. What else was Claude supposed to say? He spent so long trying to figure out how to talk to Cyril that he had no idea what words to use when he finally got a chance. But that was all right, he figured. Because with any luck, that chance would be the first of many._

* * *

Claude awoke hollow the next morning. Everything felt wrong— everything _was_ wrong. What was he supposed to do? Just keep going to class like normal? If he didn’t, it may cause for questions to be raised. If it wasn’t for how little he was trusted around Garreg Mach to begin with, he wouldn’t care all that much. But in order to figure out what was going on or better still, what he was going to do about it, it was likely in his best interest to act like nothing happened.

It was easier said than done, though. His chest felt heavy, his brain foggy, and he couldn’t keep his eyes from darting around in search of Cyril or clues or _something_. Whenever his classmates would inquire about his condition, the interaction would bring him out of his own head long enough for him to speak as though it were a normal afternoon. But his behavior outside of conversation was enough to keep them worried. Thankfully, they all had enough of their own problems to worry about— training and whatnot— so Claude could easily find an opening to excuse himself from everybody after class.

Yet once he was outside, he was at a loss once more. What then? If nothing else, he supposed he could listen in on the other students again. But it seemed his eavesdropping from the day before already gave him all the information that was available.

That realization gave him an idea, though. If he couldn’t find any more immediate differences from his memories, then he would have to look deeper. So he went straight to the library and pulled out the first familiar history book he could find— one he must have looked through dozens of times before. If anything was different, he would be able to tell.

Before settling down at a nearby table, Claude grabbed a few more books for good measure. And he was glad that he did, because he couldn’t find a single detail in the first one that stuck out. After getting through the second, he grew frustrated. He flipped through a third and then a fourth— still nothing. As far as he could tell, history was told the exact same way he remembered it. That was… _confusing_ , to say the least. 

Sure, time was turned back and some things were different. It was weird and he couldn’t pretend he understood what was happening. But to think that the only changes in all the world’s history happened so close to him? That didn’t make any sense. He shook his head, fingers tugging at his hair. Surely, he just had to look through more books. There had to be some minute detail somewhere that was different. Something that he wouldn’t even notice, maybe.

“You doin’ okay…?”

A voice made him jolt. Claude snapped his head upwards to the sound, his mind trying to grasp the words being said as he pulled himself from his thoughts. Cyril stood on the other side of the table, staring at him.

“Oh— hey there! Am I in your way?” Claude did his best to sound cheery.

“Yeah,” Cyril nodded. “And it looks like ya haven’t moved since this morning.”

“Well… I guess that would be because I haven’t!” Claude let out a chuckle, then rose to his feet. The movement was painful, his joints stiff. Just how long had he been there, anyway? The only light in the library was that of the candles. “I’ll just get out of your way. Oh— and don’t worry about these,” he scooped up his chosen books. “I’ll be taking them with me.”

“Sure.” Cyril didn’t say another word before he moved forward to clean the table. And he probably would have been fine doing just that if it wasn’t for Claude’s eyes burning into his back. So, instead of continuing his chores, Cyril turned to Claude with a glare. “What is it?” he demanded, brimming with annoyance.

Claude didn’t realize he was staring. Not until Cyril reacted to it, anyway. He got lost deep in thought again. Suddenly, history didn’t matter to him anymore. With the other standing there before him, all Claude could worry about was how to get back into his good graces.

“Nothing— just thinking,” he said, searching his mind for an excuse. “Hey… you spend a lot of time in here, right?”

Cyril blinked, suspicious. “... Yeah. What about it?”

“Well, I was just looking around for some good books on Fódlan history. Turns out there’s a lot in here— so many I can’t bring them all back in one trip. Think you could help me out with a few?” It worked before. Now Claude wasn’t sure what their interactions had been like up until that point— were they exactly how he remembered them or were they different? Had they even interacted at all? He couldn’t be sure— all he knew was that Cyril knew his name, but they hardly needed to speak for him to know that.

Based on the look Cyril gave him, however, it didn’t work. “Not my fault ya wanna horde all those, just make more trips,” and with that, Cyril turned back around to continue his work. Claude clicked his tongue, disappointed.

“Yeah, I guess you’re busy enough, right? Sorry to bother you. Let me know if you need a hand!” Cyril didn’t respond— not even with a nod of his head— so Claude took that as his cue to leave. There were plenty of other books he could look through in his room, anyway.

* * *

As if losing Cyril wasn’t bad enough, Claude was beginning to feel more isolated than ever before. And that was saying something— there wasn’t a moment in his life prior to Garreg Mach where he didn’t feel alone. Enrolling in classes did little to help. Even if he made friends, they didn’t know who he was. And he actively kept them from finding out, too— every word he spoke to his classmates was guarded. Calculated. He knew them. And sure, they probably _thought_ they knew him, too. But they didn’t know the first thing.

Now he felt as though the weight of history itself burdened his shoulders. He saw war declared. Countless people he knew got hurt.

People he knew were _dead_.

And he was the only one who remembered any part of it.

He went on like that for weeks, flipping through book after book and scroll after scroll, desperate to find even just the slightest discrepancy from his memories. Life went on all around him as he did and soon, the three classes all took part in another task. The spotlight was on the Black Eagles yet again, their class assigned to defend against anything strange that may happen during the Goddess’s Rite of Rebirth. From the sounds of it, the fiasco went exactly how Claude remembered. Byleth came out of it with the Sword of the Creator— that memory, mystifying as it was at the time, was still fresh in his mind. There was no doubt it was the same.

It was a frustrating realization to say the least. There was nothing he could do but live with an entire year of his life gone— all the relationships he made, the progress towards his goals.

There could have been one saving grace to it all; maybe the second time around, it would be better. He did it before, right? So he knew how everything was going to go. But it wasn’t that simple. For some reason, nothing went his way. He never found any opportunities to speak with Byleth, for one— if he didn’t know any better he would think the professor was avoiding him. They were just busy with their class, though, making sure all their students were prepared for the same missions they completed with the Golden Deer last time.

If there even was a last time.

Claude had to admit he was starting to feel a little… _off_ about the whole thing. Did all of that _really_ happen? Was he just having a particularly bad bout of deja vu? Because he could swear by that point in time he had at least struck up one conversation with Cyril, but he had no such luck in reality. And unlike with Byleth, he could be sure that Cyril _was_ avoiding him on purpose.

Whenever Claude entered a room, Cyril would leave it. He wouldn’t try to be discreet about it, either. He would just look up, see Claude, and leave. But Claude refused to get the message because he refused to let Cyril go.

Maybe it was selfish of him, but it was easy enough to convince himself it wasn’t. Claude dealt with his own demons, but Cyril… Cyril dealt with so much more. And at such a young age, too. Claude was confident he was the only one who knew how much pain Cyril was in, and knowing that, he couldn’t just stand by and watch. He couldn’t leave someone he loved alone like that. Where he could count on all his classmates to take care of themselves, he couldn’t leave Cyril alone. The boy knew no life away from abuse and self-destruction— if Claude didn’t help him, who would?

So maybe it _was_ completely selfish. Did he really think himself the only one who could help? Though such a thought felt naive, Claude wasn’t willing to risk what might become of his former brother if he never intervened with fate. The image of the other still and slumped against that tree remained stuck on his mind like stubborn glue.

He would just have to keep trying. It didn’t matter how many dirty looks from the other he earned.

“Have you ever thought about joining a class?” Claude asked the next time he saw Cyril. They were in the library— it seemed to be the easiest place to talk to the other. Claude sorted through books left on the tables, acting as though he was looking for something to read.

Cyril halted in his own activities to give him an odd look. “... I’m not a student.”

“You could _become_ a student.”

“No… I’m not s’posed to be a student. I work here.”

“That can always change, you know.”

Cyril sighed, already exasperated. “I _can’t_ be a student. Not allowed to be. Drop it.”

Claude knew that very well. Even when the Cyril he remembered joined his class, it wasn’t as a student at first— it was as a _helper_ , whatever the hell that meant. Him and Byleth had to pull quite a few strings to lighten Cyril’s workload so he could focus more on studying. Even then, his enrollment status was in a gray area, but as far as Claude was concerned Cyril was as much a part of the Golden Deer as he was.

He frowned at the memories. Rhea tended to be more agreeable when Byleth was involved. Even if he managed to convince Cyril to join his class, would Manuela be able to grant him the same privileges?

As much as he would worry about Cyril being in a different class from him, maybe it was worth a shot.

“Like I said, that can always change. Professor Byleth seems nice, right? Maybe you can try asking them about it.”

Cyril glared down at the book he was holding. For a second, it looked like he almost considered Claude’s words. “... No. I don’t wanna.”

Claude frowned. “At least give it some thought okay? I can always help—”

“Can’t ya just leave me alone already?!” Cyril burst. “If ya really wanna help that bad, _leave me alone_.” With that, he turned his full attention back to the shelves. Claude stood there for a moment, a bit crestfallen, before he did as Cyril asked.

* * *

Cyril never joined his class. Or the Black Eagles. Or the Blue Lions, for that matter. By the time the Guardian Moon came around, Claude had all but given up.

He remembered the cold of that moon well. How he would spend hours looking through Jeralt’s journal, trying to learn everything he could about Byleth. How the professor was somber at best, matched by Leonie, and the whole class fell into gloom for what felt like a century. Claude kept busy as ever, though— there was so much that piqued his interest. So much to learn.

None of it had the same effect. None of it mattered anymore. The journal— it was all committed to memory, and for what? He didn’t have the strength to pretend. To do it all again. Byleth already wouldn’t talk to him before, so it was easy enough to settle for condolences and spend the rest of the time holed up in his room.

Sometimes he would look through the drawers of his desk. There were papers in there— blank, full of notes, and everything in between. But none of them were what he wished to see.

So he would surrender and lay back on his bed, drinking in the quiet. The solitude. And every little sting of agony it brought to his heart.

* * *

_“Claude!”_

_He turned, already smiling upon recognition of the voice. “Hey, kiddo! Haven’t seen you all day.”_

_“I’ve been busy.” The other was holding a piece of paper close to his chest as he shuffled, looking a bit awkward. “Um… this is— here,” he held the paper out, then, making a point of looking anywhere but Claude._

_His smile widening, Claude took the parchment and flipped it around. It was a drawing of two wyverns— who of which he figured to be Cyril’s and his own— made with jagged yet careful lines of ink. His chest swelled with pride at the sight. “Cyril! You drew this?” he beamed. The other, still looking away, gave a tiny nod. “It’s amazing— I swear you get better every day!”_

_Only then did Cyril glance up at him with a shy laugh. “Yeah, right. I don’t even got time to draw every day.”_

_“I know, that’s what’s so amazing about it. C’mere, kiddo—” Careful not to crease the drawing, Claude pulled Cyril into a hug, ruffling his hair._

_“Hey—!” Despite an effort to sound mad, Cyril ended up laughing instead. He batted at Claude’s hand as he pulled away. “It’s not_ that _good.”_

_“Sure it is!” Claude insisted. “Where do you want it to go? Up in the classroom? Ah— you’re too shy for that, huh. But I really think it would go nice with the—”_

_“It’s for you,” Cyril interjected. And a second later, his eyes widened as he realized what he said. “I-I mean— it’s— if you want it! It’s just… ya seem like ya like it, so…”_

_Claude could have cried. He went straight to his bulletin board to post the drawing. “Perfect.” His throat was tight as he spoke. Cyril stepped up to him, head tilted with concern._

_“Um… you okay, Claude…? You don’t have to keep it—”_

_“No way you’re taking this from me!” Claude snaked an arm around Cyril’s shoulders and pulled him back into an embrace. “Don’t you get it? This is the best thing I’ve ever received. I’ve never seen an illustration more magnificent. I’ll cherish this gift until the day I die and then—”_

_“Okay, okay— keep it!” Cyril bumped his forehead against Claude’s shoulder. “So dramatic…”_

_Claude gave him a squeeze and didn’t plan on letting him go anytime soon. It would be harder for Cyril to see the tears welling in his eyes that way. He didn’t mean to get so emotional— it was just hard not to. He was proud of Cyril._

_And besides, that was the first gift he’d ever received._

* * *

War.

It was just as terrifying the second time, somehow. Maybe it was because Claude didn’t know how it ended. He barely made it past the first attack, after all. And with uncertainty looming over him for moons at that point, he wasn’t particularly excited about going into completely uncharted territory.

Then again, maybe he wouldn’t. Maybe it would all go back. And he found that a part of him hoped it would. He was in pain over his failure to get everything back to normal. It didn’t matter that it was impossible for him to do so— even knowing that, he still failed his little brother and in turn failed himself.

But maybe it wasn’t too late.

He stood at the gate to the grounds of Garreg Mach, looking over the bloodshed all around him. His own sword was drawn, of course, but he only had one course of action running through his mind; find Cyril.

If he could, he had another chance. They would just have to avoid the forest— get to their wyverns instead and get the hell out of there. And so, he began pushing his way through enemy soldiers, calling Cyril’s name as loudly as he could.

Even if he remembered the battle, it did nothing to prepare him to be in it once again. But no matter how tired he was— no matter how much his throat burned— he kept pushing onwards.

One more chance.

And that’s when he heard it.

“Cyril!”

Catherine’s voice— the same as last time— made him turn hard on his heels. He wove through every parting of armor he could find, shoving away anyone who tried for a fight. When he managed to get through to a small clearing, he saw the very flash of blonde hair he was looking for.

There was Catherine, eyes hardened with determination and hand outstretched to Cyril. He looked the same, too— clutching his axe as he stared at the knight before him.

“We have to find her! Quickly! Ah—” That same look. One of hidden desperation. “Claude, get over here— Lady Rhea is gone!”

They were both looking at him. Claude couldn’t think of anything better to say that time around. Any final words of persuasion that could solidify Cyril going with him instead of Catherine. So he didn’t— he just followed the pattern, reaching for his brother.

“Cyril, we have to get out of here!” He didn’t need to look at Catherine to know the expression she wore.

Cyril stared at him. He was scared, that was for certain. But he couldn’t be as scared as Claude. Couldn’t be as panicked or overwhelmed or fixated on the moment before him as if what happened next would determine the fate of the universe itself. When Cyril’s look of fear flickered with the same disdain he always wore with Claude near, Claude was struck with dread so disarming he thought he might keel over.

“ _I’ll protect you!_ ” he burst. And he certainly wasn’t half as composed as he wanted to be. “You’ll be safe with me, Cyril, please— come with me— _please_ —!”

It was a second that lasted years. The battle was phased from Claude’s mind until he could see nothing but the two people in front of him and hear nothing but his heart pounding in his ears. Without any hesitation, Cyril took a hand off his axe— 

—and took Catherine’s hand.

“ _No!_ ” Claude screamed. And he kept screaming. But it was too late— Cyril and Catherine vanished into the sea of soldiers. A sea that Claude knew would go on and on. He ran through the battlefield in the same way he did before, pushing and yelling and fighting to keep his balance amidst the chaos. But no matter how far he went or how hard he looked, he already knew it was no use.

He already knew he lost.

* * *

The flames were a shocking sight— stark contrast against the cold that bit at Claude’s skin. Fhirdiad was usually colder than he was used to. That sight, though— houses upon houses burning to the ground— it should have been something he was accustomed to by then. He had seen villages on fire before. He had seen people running for their lives amongst the smoke with no time to gather their belongings or the ones they loved.

That, of course, didn’t mean it was something he ever wanted to see again. And now that he did, he felt ill— an attack from the Archbishop herself, no doubt. An order to end the lives of countless innocents so that she may in turn extend her own. Claude wondered how many had fallen like that.

Claude should have run. He had no business being there— Derdriu fell quite some time prior and his life had been spared. It felt like a miracle he still breathed, and surely all he was doing then was pushing his luck. He had no battle to fight there. No place on either side of the field. So why was he there? With the Knights of Seiros before him and the Empire marching behind?

It was something he asked himself many times on the journey. He easily could have been in Almyra— been fighting his way to the world he always envisioned in his dreams. But the odd memories from his past had a grip on him. There wasn’t a single night gone by where his subconscious wasn’t caught up in the swirling confusion of his academy days. They happened twice, didn’t they? It didn’t make any sense— especially not then. Years had passed. A war declared. A war still raging. And a war he lost.

Still, he was trapped in his past, unable to think beyond the one Blue Sea Moon he swore he saw twice and all the double moons that followed. He never got that feeling again after fleeing the academy. Yet the loneliness those days gave him never left.

And that was what brought him there. He couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was waiting for him. Or that maybe he was the one waiting.

The village was fully ablaze as he walked along a cobblestone path. The heat of it bogged him down, obscured his vision and labored his breathing, but he continued. Every now and then there would be a scream of a straggler— someone who waited too long before they ran. It was sickening. Nearly every part of him wanted to run, get away from that horrid place before there was more horror still, but the part that wanted to stay rang louder.

It wasn’t much longer before he saw a figure up ahead. Surely it wasn’t a villager— they would be much more panicked if they were. But this figure walked calmly with a straightened back. And as Claude drew near, he could see an axe held in one hand and a torch in the other. Someone working under the Archbishop, he thought. Someone ordered to burn down that village. Even if it was their job, who in good conscience could carry out such an order? But his wonder was cut short as the distance was closed, and all at once he felt as though the heat of the fires took hold of his lungs.

Cyril stared back at him.

He was grown, now, and much bigger than Claude remembered him. But it was Cyril nonetheless. Even through heat waves and smoke, Claude was sure of it, because he remembered that piercing glare. It was much brighter in his memories, though. The boy he knew would look to him with annoyance or irritation, but the man who looked back at him now… he just looked dead. There was no anger. There certainly was no joy. Claude searched for sadness in the blank expression, but found none. He was sure the person there was Cyril, but less sure it was in the flesh rather than a spectre.

Neither of them moved. Claude didn’t know how long they stood there. It was only when he noticed Cyril tighten his grip on his axe that Claude tried to speak.

“Cyril…” he started, not certain his voice was even loud enough to carry. “What are you doing here…?” The other didn’t answer. He only took a step forward. Claude took a step back. “What are you _doing_?” his voice was louder then. “All this— how can you be okay with all this?”

“To protect Lady Rhea.”

Hearing Cyril’s voice was surreal, both in the sound of it and in what he said. Claude was plagued with nightmare after nightmare about Cyril— so much he almost believed his old friend was never real. Rather he was some manifestation of Claude’s inadequacies— nothing more than a constant reminder of every misstep he took and every future failure he feared.

The scene he faced then was nightmarish, too, though it lacked the eventual reprieve of awakening. It was all his fault, wasn’t it? His failure to coax Cyril from the church ended not only in the destruction of the boy himself, but all the people he killed in the Archbishop’s name.

And that thought made him mad.

_To protect Lady Rhea._

It was her fault, not his. The rage he felt then was reminiscent of something— of deep-seated resentment burning within a life he once lived.

He had many fond memories of Cyril— they were all vague and felt unreal, but no matter how much time passed him by he just couldn’t shake them. And with the scene before him, those distant memories grew stronger. They almost felt within reach. Cyril was someone Claude loved, once. And though their time together was far away, it thrived then in the back of his mind. It all became clear; the reason he was there. Why he didn’t flee Fódlan the moment failure overtook him. He _was_ waiting for someone, and someone was waiting for him.

Cyril was someone he still loved.

“You don’t have to do this,” Claude called then. “Please, Cyril, this isn’t right! You have to get out of here!” He reached out a hand. Like a sword through his flesh, he remembered the day Garreg Mach fell, where he pleaded with Cyril to go with him instead of with the knights.

The other stared back at him. His expression didn’t change— it remained strikingly stagnant against the devastation all around them. And if he hadn’t soon moved to lift his axe, Claude would have thought him to be an illusion after all.

Claude’s breath caught in his throat. Was Cyril really going to fight him…? He stumbled back another pace, hands rising in an attempt to placate the other. “I’m not going to fight you,” he said. “Please— it isn’t safe here, but I just want to talk.” Cyril clearly had no intention of chatting. He moved forward, axe raised even more, but he faltered before his next step.

In that same moment, Claude could hear someone behind him. No, not just someone— _hundreds_ of people. Without turning around he already knew the imperial army arrived. He cursed them under his breath. If only he had a little more time.

Cyril fell back. Claude knew that wasn’t the last of him, though. He would certainly be fighting this battle— but where? Claude ran between two houses, careful to dodge surrounding flames as he fled from the sight of the approaching soldiers. He figured Cyril must have gone to where Rhea was, set on protecting her. So Claude would go there too.

Of course it was dangerous. And it would be difficult, too— dodging not only the elements but the soldiers on either side, all set to kill anyone they see before them not donned in their own armor.

The houses made for good cover if nothing else. In the confusion of war, Claude easily slid past the army, hiding in shadows and behind walls until he managed to reach the castle. It was heavily fortified with knights everywhere he looked— this wasn’t surprising, though. Towered above them all was the Immaculate One. Lady Rhea’s true form— an old suspicion of his and something he hadn’t the time to be surprised by. She was to be protected at all costs, he was sure. And none of the knights would be willing to hear out his request to chat with one of their own.

Positioned behind a half-standing wall, Claude searched for Cyril in the sky. Though the other had been on his feet before, he was probably serious now— he would be on his wyvern, ready to defend the dragon behind him. And sure enough, Claude spotted him against the darkened sky, shooting down any imperial soldiers within aim.

Now how was Claude going to get to him? His own wyvern was awaiting his return quite a ways away— it was much harder to remain unseen with one, after all. He clicked his tongue. The imperial army was fast approaching. He had to think.

The close strike of clashing steel cast him from his plotting, though, and he jumped to the side in an effort to stay hidden. The army must have picked up the pace— they were upon the castle, preparing for the final attack. Claude’s heart spiked. He looked up. Cyril was still there for only a moment, and he soon swooped downwards at the forthcoming soldiers. Claude had to stop himself from shouting. He was ready to give in to dangerous compulsion— to rush to Cyril’s aid— but the other’s offensive motion was cut short as he was shot out of the air with contrived wind.

He cried out and crashed to the ground. Soldiers overwhelmed him. Claude’s vision blurred. One of those old memories flared up again. It felt so real in his mind— the fall of Garreg Mach, a demonic beast, getting pushed out of the way…

And then, Claude did scream. His head hurt, his chest hurt. He didn’t want to believe what he saw. He only wanted to go there— to pull the soldiers off and throw them aside. There were too many, though. And once they cleared the area where Cyril was, he could see.

He fell close enough to where Claude was hidden for his condition to be evident. Cyril laid there, still on the stone below him. His eyelids didn’t flutter. His chest didn’t rise and fall. 

The memory forced its way back into Claude’s mind, but that time the demonic beast was gone. It was just himself and Cyril, both younger than they were then, resting against a tree in the forest surrounding the church. And though Cyril looked much younger, he was otherwise the same— unmoving and cold. Claude’s own panicked shouting ran through his mind. Over and over and over. It took hold of him until he wasn’t sure if the screams were in his head or in the real world. It all felt the same— all the horror, all the agony. He wanted it to end. He wanted Cyril to stand up. He wanted them to be young again, to be back in Garreg Mach sharing tea like the more pleasant of his recollections. 

His eyes squeezed shut. His breathing was feeble. And all he could do was hope that when his eyes opened once again, everything before him would be gone.


	3. Silver Clouds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> check out the illustration for this chapter [here!](https://twitter.com/punchyfakegamer/status/1362908369649098755)

It was all so loud. Metal screeching as it ran across metal, bodies clad in armor clattering down to solid earth. Screaming— from who, he wasn’t sure. It could have been him. It could have been anyone, really. His face was wet with tears or blood or any mixture of the two and his ears rang, deafening yet not loud enough to drown out the horror all around him. He didn’t want to open his eyes. He didn’t want to see the things before him— to experience the pain that came with all the noise. But his eyelids lifted nonetheless and in the same instant, his body rose bolt-upright where he lay. His lungs heaved and his shoulders shook. Droplets fell from his face, trailing transparent torment where they fell.

The sounds were gone, then. Replaced with nothing more than distant footsteps and light rustles of wind. He didn’t have to look— the wall across from him was enough to tell of his surroundings. 

It turned back again.

If Claude had the capacity to be relieved, surely he would have been. But his hands still shook, giving in eventually to let him fall backwards onto the bed. He wasn’t sure what he was feeling. He was just empty.

When first it all reset, he lost merely a few moons of his life. Now years were gone. He watched every day of them pass by, lived every second. But as far as his memory could reach, his room was exactly how he left it when he was eighteen.

Claude shivered. Not from a draft— rather from a sickening dread. He had to go through it all again. And this time, he couldn’t afford to fail. Not when he knew just what would happen if he did. So though there was reluctance— limbs dragging as if crafted from lead— he drew himself from bed and halfheartedly prepared for class.

His first worry was what would be different. The previous shift in teachers was something that seemed insignificant yet sparked a chain reaction of which he never could have predicted. So what would it be this time? Another change in faculty? Whatever it was, he knew not to underestimate its toll.

But, almost to his disappointment, the classroom was devoid of a proctor when he arrived. And sure enough, nearly ten minutes later, Maneula appeared with all the same franticness as she had the time before. So had nothing changed? No— he couldn’t be sure of that. 

Class, at least, went by without a hitch. Some things were easier the second time around— he managed to keep up his normal demeanor so well that no one suspected a thing. He slipped away unbothered about his current state of rest. And with that, he quickly saw that it was, indeed, again the Blue Sea moon. He took in a breath with every intention to let it back out as a sigh, but was sooner distracted by movement in the corner of his eye.

Like clockwork; it was professor Byleth on their way out from the Black Eagle’s classroom.

“Oh— hey, Teach!” Claude called. The other stopped to look at him. “Fancy seeing you here, I figured you would all be resting after the big mission. But hey, I guess true genius never takes a holiday, right?”

Byleth, for a moment, did nothing but stare in response. Claude wondered if his assumption was incorrect, but the professor eventually gave a nod.

“Everyone wanted to keep studying,” they said. “And I wasn’t allowed time for a break. But a distraction is good right now, I think.”

So he was right. “I see… well, my condolences— must not be easy. They should have given you a day off at the very least. But it’s good to see how hard everyone’s working! I knew you’d be good at this.”

Another nod. “Thank you.”

They turned to leave after that, and as soon as Claude was alone, the smile on his face dropped. The teachers were the same, the tasks were the same— if anything changed, he would have to find it himself. The sigh escaped him that time.

How many years would it be? How many daunting days would he have to relive? How many deaths? And if he failed…

A quick shake of his head forced such things from his mind. One day at a time— that was all he could do.

He made his way to the library, figuring he should do the same thing he did the last time. It was hardly a pleasant task, but what else was he going to do? Once he made it into the candlelit room, however, he was immediately struck off course.

Cyril was there picking through books, squinting at the seam of each one before placing them all in different piles. Claude was frozen for a moment, his eyes wide. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to speak to the other or not. Well, he did of course— but the thought was just as terrifying as it was tempting. Cyril wouldn’t remember him, right? There was a possibility, he supposed, but what was the point in getting his hopes up? Still, he was going to have to face reality one time or another. Whatever that reality was.

“Hey there, Cyril!” he called, waving with a smile as he took some steps forward. “Whatcha up to?”

The other furrowed his brow before looking up to him. And how awful it was that no amount of preparedness could stop one’s heart from sinking.

“... Work. What do ya want?”

“Work, huh? Putting all the books back where they came from?”

“Yeah,” Cyril stared at him, eyes narrowing. “There somethin’ here ya need or are ya just wastin’ my time?”

“Well, actually…” Claude took quick inventory of the books splayed across the table closest to them. Most were history books, maybe a few novels scattered here and there. “I think I can take some of those off your hands. Do you mind?”

“... Guess not. I’ll just put ‘em away later.”

“No worries kiddo, I’ll take care of it— some of us around here know how to clean up after ourselves, believe it or not.”

“Mm… you might be the only one.” Cyril took a couple steps back and crossed his arms. “Go ahead, then. I don’t got all day.”

So he did. He knew the books so well he could almost recognize them by the color of their spine alone— it wasn’t long before he had an arm and bagful of them. “Thanks for letting me bother you, remember to eat dinner! And get some sleep for once, while you’re at it.” Though he had a light tone to his voice, Claude hoped the other would listen to his words. Cyril shrugged, quick to return to his task. And with it obvious his presence was far from desired, Claude gave nothing more than a quick goodbye.

* * *

_“It’s_ fine _, Claude. Really.”_

_Sure, Cyril could say that all he wanted. But it didn’t change what Claude was looking at— a thin blanket tucked behind an armchair in a dark corner of the library. Cyril’s apparent ‘room.’_

_“I understand a life of luxury isn’t for everyone, Cyril. But this…?”_

_“Okay… look.” Cyril knelt down and reached into the corner. He pulled out a sketchbook and some pens. “I got all my stuff here— it’s plenty of room.” If Claude didn’t know any better, he would think this to be Cyril’s attempt at humor. He hardly felt like laughing, though. What he really wanted to do was scream._

_“All your stuff, huh? Quite a collection you’ve got there.”_

_Cyril huffed. “I don’t get your problem— the dorms are for students. I’m not a student.”_

_“And I don’t suppose the rest of the faculty sleep curled up behind their couches?”_

_“No— ‘cause they’re all professors or whatever. It’s really not that bad in here… it’s quiet ‘n no one ever comes upstairs really. Besides, I’m allowed to be in here as much as I want.”_

_Claude was shaking. It was bad— bad enough he had to gather himself lest the shivers come through in his voice._

_“Well… you know what they say, travel helps expand your mind! Here, moving is always a pain, isn’t it? I’ll help you.” Claude leaned forward to grab the blanket. He didn’t stop to acknowledge Cyril’s quizzical glare, just headed straight for the stairs._

_“Hey— where are ya goin’?!” Cyril ran after him._

_“To our room! Where else?”_

_“Our… what? No, Claude, give that back—”_

_When Cyril reached for his blanket, Claude rounded on him. “You’re staying with me,” he said, voice thick with finality. And he was quick to regret his tone when he saw the way Cyril flinched. Claude’s expression softened, and with a tone to match, he slowly leaned downwards. “Sorry, kiddo— I was loud there, huh? But you can’t stay in here anymore.”_

_Cyril hugged his sketchbook to his chest, a defensive gesture. “... Well I can’t stay with you, neither.”_

_“And why’s that?”_

_“‘Cause… ‘cause I’ll just get in your way. ‘N your room’s a mess, I hate it.”_

_Claude blinked at that last comment, then laughed. “Well, you got me there. If I promise to keep it clean like a good roommate, will you stay?” Cyril was silent. “You won’t get in my way,” Claude added. “I like having you around, you know that? We’re friends! And friends don’t let each other suffer like this.”_

_“I’m… I’m not sufferin’.” But as he spoke, Cyril looked up to Claude, and the emotion found there seared a hole directly through his heart._

_Cyril_ was _suffering. Something deep within his irises called for help in a way Claude knew his words never would._

_In a manner as silent as the pain the other bore, Claude made a promise; he wasn’t going to let that agony follow Cyril forever._

* * *

Things were starting to change. Not in any significant way. Not in a way Claude had to worry about, either. They were simple changes he could have predicted and changes he chose to ignore— a shift in the atmosphere caused directly by his actions alone.

His classmates barely talked to him anymore. Or not “anymore” per say, as they never really did to begin with. At least in the scape of their own memories. Claude used to chat with them all regularly. Even Lorenz— though it was never pleasant and rarely by his own accord. But it seemed Lorenz was the only one who held any interest in him at all.

It wasn’t like he was shirking his Class Leader responsibilities. Claude showed up to every meeting, every special training, every supplemental class. There wasn’t much else to do, after all. But that’s all it was— he hit the mark of his responsibilities and went no further than that. 

He didn’t care about them any less, but it was a strange thing to handle— every day, he felt the disconnect between himself and the people around him grow larger. A gaping chasm he could both see before him and feel in his heart. He knew all about them. He held memories of them dear— times they laughed together, studied together, healed together. But it was all gone now. The thought of going through it was exhausting— of reliving the same memories, good or bad, over and over again. So, in the end, he opted for silence. For retreating to his room every night instead of spending hours chatting in the dining hall like he used to. The silence was just as comforting as it was painful, and the familiarity of it became his vice.

Silence didn’t have to be rebuilt again over time. It was always there— always attainable. And when his only company soon became droning meetings and nagging suspicions from the Gloucester boy, silence was his sanctuary.

He hadn’t given up, of course. He still tried to talk to Cyril, at least, but as expected it was to no avail. His current attempts mirrored his previous ones so much it was almost laughable.

So once again, after every failure, he would retreat to silence. It was the only salvation he had in the cruelty of a world all his own.

* * *

There was a ringing in his ears that drowned out all else. He wondered if, somehow, he was the one who put it there. He certainly didn’t want to hear anything anymore. Steel on steel, blood on dirt… It was tiresome. And he hated that it had grown tiresome. It was supposed to be scary, wasn’t it? It was scary last time Garreg Mach fell— just as terrifying as the first. But as the imperial army marched towards the grounds and Claude watched them move, he didn’t feel any fear. If he did, it was discomfort only from his lack of trepidation— what such indifference meant for him. For his future.

_His future_. He audibly scoffed at the thought. What did the future matter if he would only find himself back in the past? Maybe it did matter. Maybe this would end only if he found the right future. But what was it? And how would he get there? Exhaustion played on his heart like a worn out bow upon withered strings. He could keep playing, sure— but for how much longer, he wasn’t certain.

Byleth stayed with the church. It took moons for a change to happen. Claude waited the whole time, watching his surroundings day after day, hour after hour. Preparing himself to catch the tiniest shift in circumstance. And it was hard— his memories were from years prior. In some sense, at least. So maybe he missed some details along the way, but he was sure if something big happened, he would catch on.

And something big did happen. But he couldn’t care.

He just found himself in the same place at the top of that same hill staring at the same army marking the beginning of the same war. And he couldn’t care.

He felt rather out of place walking through the battlefield. As if he were strolling through a storybook— scenes took place all around him, dramatic and clamorous. But he wasn’t really there. He could see the words on the page, the illustrations across parchment, yet he himself was in a different world. The soldiers were at each other’s throats, as they always were, and his complete nonchalance must have either made him invisible or not worth a fight. Or maybe he had just grown rather used to this path. Some place in his mind memorized the openings between swords and armor— the exact twists and turns that took him to the knight he sought.

And she was there, all right. Her blonde hair a beacon bright across the conflict, panic evident on her features but toned down with professionalism. The only thing that was different, Claude soon noticed, was the lacking presence of another.

Where was Cyril…?

Just like that, story time was over. The novel closed and Claude was drawn into reality, the clashing of blades replacing the distant ringing in his ears. Everything was bright and loud and _right there_ and he didn’t remember the last time anything felt right there. This wasn’t right— this wasn’t how it went. He was supposed to have one more chance. His head swung around, left and right and left again, but the boy was nowhere to be seen. Catherine disappeared, too— off to look for Rhea, no doubt.

Claude’s heart fell to his stomach and he found himself missing the distance. It was lonely when he was far from everyone and everything— there was little to be found in the quiet. But that was the point, wasn’t it? When the noise came back all around him, it brought agony with it— new and old. Sharp and dull. He felt the pain of the first time he watched his brother die and in the same moment lived the dread of watching it happen again.

Weaving through iron and blood and screams and death— it was harder now that his path wasn’t trodden before. The soldiers were in unexpected places, rushing at him in beats he hadn’t memorized. Feeling alive was strange— wrong, almost. As if fearing death could mean something to him anymore.

He looked on all sides as he ran. As though frantically scanning the lines of a script he failed to practice, he searched for his final act. The destruction of Garreg Mach was his cue— his time to shine if only for a moment. So where was it? That last chance— the line that led him to exit the stage. 

And as he ran, shoulders bruising on pauldrons and shields, he began to wonder if there ever was such a line to begin with.

* * *

Claude knelt down, shifting dust through his fingers until nothing but a few rough pebbles remained. It was weird seeing the cathedral in ruin. He always knew it ended up that way— became nothing more than a pile of rubble where it used to be full of worship and life. He never saw it, though. The sight sent a chill through his spine.

That’s right. He knew this was going to happen, so he should have been able to stop it. But he couldn’t. And he didn’t know why he couldn’t, either. Why nothing ever went his way— why the strange professor wouldn’t talk to him or why his own brother wouldn’t look at him. Why he had to sit in the library reading the same history books over and over as life dragged on despite him.

He could hear the church bells. They weren’t ringing— he was certain of that. Yet he still heard them; the particular pattern they played at the top of every hour. A reminder of the time gone by and the time that had yet to come.

If only those bells could still ring for everyone else to hear. He couldn’t repair them on his own— he hadn’t the skill. But he wished, ever so futilely, that he could. Because maybe if those bells rang out, Cyril would hear them and find his way back home.

Claude wasn’t an idiot. Cyril disappeared the same time as Rhea. And it wasn’t in the same fashion, either— he wasn’t captured. He ran after her— or in the direction he thought she was, at least— determined to protect her as he always planned to do in dour times.

The bells couldn’t bring home someone who was no longer there.

At least the silence was back. Aside from the ringing, of course. Claude had no tears left to spare— he only stared as his fingertips traced the rubble. As a way of passing the time, he counted each bell as it tolled in his ear and guessed on which number his eyes would open to the neutral ceiling he knew so well.


End file.
